Archive of Our Own

until it isn't. until he realises that he genuinely does like you, likes taking you out on dates and seeing you smile. even though you know him as tony, and he's been careful not to let the real him show, it's been slipping out anyway. and all the things he's catalogued in his brain about you under the pretence of knowing his target are things he keeps in mind around you—your coffee order, your morning routine, the temperature you like your shower water at.

he knows you charge your phone in the living room so you don't scroll in the morning, and your preferred way of waking up is when you're curled right into him with your legs tangled together, and when you're at home you skip more than you walk because you don't know what to do with the excess energy you have. and he's taken you on what, twenty dates now? and you call him your boyfriend and he's talked to your mum before—although it has been on the phone—and he has the spare key to your apartment.

he conveniently forgets to "do recon" sometimes, and he is not a man who ever forgets. he keeps on letting his guard down; he likes you too much. it has to be today.

or that's the plan, anyway.

it's a pretty warm day and you're already halfway through a tub of ice cream—or two; you've dumped both flavours in your bowl together and open the door with the spoon still in your mouth.

"hi," you say, but it comes out unintelligible, and he kisses your cheek and his hands slot into place on your hips. your free one traces the contours of his muscles up his side even through the hoodie he's wearing, and he kicks the door closed behind him.

"hi," he whispers back. you put the bowl and spoon down, licking your lips.

"y'miss me?"

"yeah."

then he kisses you for real, shuffling you back towards the wall. your arms loop around his neck, pulling him further into your space, and you taste like strawberry ice cream, a hint of vanilla. the weight of the gun, 3d printed to be untraceable, is devastatingly heavy from where it's tucked into the back of his jeans. just—just five more minutes, let me live this dream, he thinks.

you hum happily into his mouth, fingers brushing through the short hair at the back of his head. he doesn't mean to make a sound, but it happens, and you pull back to laugh at him. you're perfect, don't give him that look, now. you don't even know.

your eyes move to somewhere over his shoulder. "oh, my ice cream's melting."

he turns back, too, glaring at the offending mixture of pink and white. "oh."

you're scarfing it down at amazing speeds, sat beside him on the sofa with his arm 'round your shoulders. you'll get brain freeze if you keep going like this—

"i think i have brain freeze," you announce between mouthfuls of your strawberry-vanilla concoction. there it is.

he takes the bowl from you and finishes what little's left of it; your head's leaned back against the sofa, staring into space as you reconsider life.

"want me to kiss it better?"

you lift your head to stare at him, unamused. "tony, that's not how it works."

"i know that's not how it works," he responds, and his voice has dropped an octave, and you know what he wants, and you laugh.

"okay," you relent. he sets the bowl on the coffee table and you pull him down by the front of his hoodie to kiss him again and he makes the executive decision to not kill you tonight or forever. there's spit and teeth the way he likes it, the way you know he likes it. his knees bracket your thighs, arm braced by your shoulder as the other one tilts your head up; you push him away, back into the cushions, grinning at him with swollen lips already. he bites back a whine when you climb onto his lap, hand straying under the hem of your shorts. you guide his mouth to your neck with one hand, other one busy with god-knows-what (taking off your shirt, he hopes) and he's sure he'll leave bruises on your thighs, but the good kind, born of love and something more, ones only he gets to see, because your life will not end tonight. or anytime soon, if he gets to have a say in things.

the safety of your gun clicks off. you'd hidden it beneath the cushions, waiting for the perfect opportunity—as in right now.

"game's over, poindexter," you're still smiling, but its something sharper, meaner. so very unlike you, a mask fabricated for this very moment.

he draws in a breath, slow, controlled. "oh."

"i know why you came here tonight," you say. "to kill me, right?"

"wasn't gonna."

"no?" you realise with horror that even with your gun pressed up against his head, he's gazing up at you adoringly through his lashes, thumb still rubbing circles idly into your thigh. there's a faint flush on his cheeks. he doesn't seem scared.

"no," he repeats. "gun's under the hoodie. i changed my mind."

you reach behind him, pull it out, toss it to the floor like it burns to touch.

"you have no other weapons on you?"

his eyes flicker downwards, yours follow. then he looks up again, and your cheeks are burning because of what he's just implied. nothing you haven't seen before, of course, but under these circumstances…

"no, baby, i don't."

he looks like he wants to kiss you. and he isn't scared.

things are much, much worse, actually.

he's in love. with you.

a terrifying prospect, really.

(your heart skips a beat. or three.)

"you're my target," you say, more to convince yourself than him. "i'm going to have to shoot you now."

"okay." his voice is steady. he shifts, just a little, and the movement below makes your breath catch in your throat. "do you want me to put my hands up, or is this okay?"

your palms are sweaty, grip faltering. you're trembling. he tilts his head a little, surveying, and you push the barrel further into the side of his head.

"don't be scared," he murmurs. it's intimate, the way he's talking to you, like you're not holding him at gunpoint. "bravest girl i know."

"i'm not scared," you snap, but the gun's not even aimed at his head now; your hold falters. "any last words?"

his hand reaches up to yours, realigns it so it's like you'd originally held it.

"can you kiss me?" it's pathetic—he's pathetic, and he knows it. or maybe he knows you. "i know it was real for you too—"

he thinks he might've died and they accidentally let him into heaven.

or,

you chuck the gun away from you abruptly, scooting forward on his lap. you're not crying, 'cause you don't cry, especially in situations like this, but he swallows the distressed sound you make anyway and kisses you harder, licking into your mouth like a beast that's finally been uncaged. you're apologising with every breath, and a part of him wonders if he should too—

he pauses in place, pulls back just a little to look at you better, and you let out a soft tony, not liking the delay (even though you know it's not his name).

"dex," he corrects gently; you repeat it in the same breathless tone as before. he thinks he's never heard a prettier sound. when he cups your face, you lean into the touch with a sigh.

"i'm sorry," he says. he doesn't say it often, but he really means it when he does. "for everything."

and then a quieter confession. "i love you."

it's not like either of you haven't said it before, but something's changed this time. it's different, more honest in a way, even though you'd meant it every time you said it before.

"i know." it comes out a whisper, and you blink and swallow, hoping you don't end up crying. "me too. i mean—"

"i know," he echoes your words from before, before you lapse into a comfortable silence. it's almost normal for a second. then you sit up straighter, clearing your throat, and begin taking inventory of the situation. "we can't stay here for much longer. they'll know something's wrong."

he glances around, not as urgent as you. "we have time."

"hey," you say suddenly. "did you really get hard from being held at gunpoint?"

instead of responding, he shucks off his hoodie and his hand slips under your shirt, burning against your bare waist. he makes no effort to move it upwards; it just stays there, heavy, a brand on your skin. he looks up at you and grins, needy, wanting, and you get your answer.